


Lethal Water

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Humor, John isn't Sherlock's date, Mycroft's Meddling, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:16:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, that was depressingly simple to solve,” Sherlock seethed scarcely two hours later. “Really, Lestrade, I’m aware logical thought isn’t your forte, but you could try and make more of an effort before deciding to lure John and me to the other side of London for a non-existent problem, in such weather to boot.”</p><p>Hands stuck deep into the pockets of his trench coat, the DI let the scatter of scathing reprimands rain down on him without as much as a twist of his mouth.</p><p>“Are you done?” he enquired when Sherlock halted momentarily to draw breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lethal Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [susako](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susako/gifts).



> Beta: Many, many thanks to the fantastic swissmarg for yet another incredibly fast and very helpful beta. I can’t thank her enough for all her help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course
> 
> Author’s note 1: Written for the marvellous susako to thank her for all the betaing she’s done for me.  
> Dear susako, Apologies for all those mistakes you had to correct. You wanted a casefic with Sherlock and John as BFFs and lots of rain. I do hope you like the fare I’ve come up with.  
> Author’s note 2: This fic describes an average day at 221B Baker Street somewhere in that happy time before TRF.  
> Author’s note 3: The case in this fic bears a heavy resemblance to some of the occurrences in William Boyd’s novel ‘Ordinary Thunderstorms.’  
> Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading

“Tea?” John asked, while flicking on the kettle. 

Behind him Sherlock grumbled, a vague noise that could mean any of a few things. _‘Yes, John, a cup of tea would be wonderful.’ ‘If you insist.’ ‘Are you talking to me?’_ John actually pivoted on his heel to level an enquiring glance at Sherlock’s back, which sat firmly ensconced in front of the microscope. When no further elaborations were forthcoming he concluded the sound Sherlock had uttered probably meant _‘Shut up, you’re annoying.’_

He put Sherlock’s mug back into the cupboard, filled his own RAMC mug with boiling water and dumped a PG Tips bag into it.

“It’s still raining,” he said, in order to say something. Once again, the hum his flatmate produced could be interpreted in a number of ways. Not feeling up to the task at eight-fifteen on his day off from work John chose to ignore it and clear himself a space on the table for his breakfast instead. The whole area was covered two inches thick with papers that sported what looked like Excel graphics in every colour their printer could produce. After looking at one or two of them John decided they were as enlightening as the average infographic in _The Times_ ' business section. He swept them up into a neat pile and put them into the top desk tray.

John had just installed himself with his toast and tea and the _The Times_ ' crossword when Sherlock accosted him. “You said you were making tea.”

“Yes. But since you didn’t deign to answer me,” John began. “Oi, what the bloody hell…” he yelled when Sherlock almost literally leapt at him, eyes wild and stabbing an accusing finger in the direction of his toast. It looked perfectly fine to John, not burnt too badly and with just the right amount of butter.

“My graphics,” Sherlock shrieked. “What have you been doing with my graphics?”

“Your...? What? Oh, here they are.” John reached over to grab the stack of A4s. “I cleared them out of the way.”

“I cleared them out of the way,” Sherlock mimicked. His voice sounded simultaneously bitter and derisive; an unusual blend, and one which John deemed something of an accomplishment in itself. 

“Yes, here.” John held out the papers to him. “Nothing got lost, Sherlock.”

His flatmate didn’t accept the papers. Instead, he gathered his dressing robe around him and drew himself up to his loftiest height. “Sometimes,” he announced through thin lips, “I don’t understand why I continue to put up with you.” After this declaration he graced John with his most withering look and made to sweep of the stage of the living room with the passionate deportment of a romantic heroine thwarted in love.

“Yoohoo!” Mrs Hudson knocked on the door just then. 

Mid-stride, Sherlock redirected his gaze at their landlady. “Why are you up here?” he growled. “We’re not having _a bit of a domestic_ , as you insist on inadequately labelling our verbal interactions.”

His flood of words didn’t perturb Mrs Hudson in the least. “I’m glad to hear you say so, dear,” she replied. “It certainly sounded like one to me, but then you young people don’t give a jot about such a thing as privacy. Bit different in my day, I assure you.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock cut her short, slashing the air with an impatient hand. “Apologies, apologies, apologies and so on. Oh God, the tediousness! Now what did you come up for? You were complaining about your hip yesterday.”

“Ah, it’s much better today, dear. Thank you for asking, though. You’re actually a nice boy, if only you’d care to remember it. But I just came to say there’s been another one of those deliveries. Didn’t you hear the doorbell? The box was too heavy for me to carry upstairs. It’s down in the hall if you want it.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, his whole demeanour changed straightaway. “Excellent. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He bounded for the hallway and could be heard jumping down the stairs two at a time the next instant. 

Chuckling to herself, Mrs Hudson walked into the living room. Automatically, she started picking up various items strewn across the floor and the furniture in her everlasting attempts to install a semblance of order in the flat. John admired her for her perseverance; he’d already given up months ago. Mrs Hudson, apparently, was made of sterner stuff than he.

“What was he on about?” she asked, peering at the seagull wing she’d unearthed from between the sofa cushions. It must be a recent addition to their interior to have escaped John’s notice, or he would have got rid of it. Any tissue that had once been part of a breathing creature, with the exception of the skull, was to be confined to the kitchen area. The rule was imposed three weeks after he first moved in, after John had found the squishy cushion he had lowered himself onto was in fact a partly dismembered cat.

Revulsion flitted across Mrs Hudson’s features when she figured out what she was holding between her thumb and forefinger. Her alarm was so comical John nearly laughed. With pursed lips Mrs Hudson marched towards the bin in the kitchen, disposed of the bird limb and started scrubbing her hands. John put a contrite look on his face and joined her.

“Would you care for a cuppa?” he proposed, to make up for his lack of proper housekeeping skills and Sherlock’s ceaseless determination to drag disturbing objects into her house.

“Oh no.” Fanning her hands, she began looking around for a towel to dry them. A survey of the towel on the hook induced John to signal for her to wait while he retrieved a clean one out of the cupboard.

“You’re sweet to offer, John.” She handed the towel back to him after drying her hands. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry. My doily-making class starts at nine and I still have to get properly dressed.”

“You’re taking a cab, I hope,” John said, angling his head towards the kitchen window, which was covered with a sheet of water.

“Oh no. That umbrella Mycroft gave me for my birthday works wonders in keeping me dry. And it’s so light, it’s almost fun to walk in the rain beneath it. Like I’m Debbie Reynolds, you know.” 

The fact that John had no idea what she was talking about must have shown on his face, for she smiled and burst into a song, singing in a high, wavering soprano, _“I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain. What a glorious feeling…”_

Before she could elaborate on the emotions invoked by the water falling from the heavens, Sherlock entered the kitchen, grinning as happily as a seven-year-old who’s just been unleashed on a crowded beach with his new mega super soaker. He stalked towards the kitchen table and started to shove aside the mess accumulated there to create some space for the large box he was cradling under one arm.

“I’ll be off then.” Mrs Hudson made use of the bustle to make her escape.

“Yeah. Have fun, Mrs H,” John called after her, leaving it up to her to elect whether he was referring to her joyful jaunt with her brolly or the doily class.

Sherlock was too caught up in the contents of his package to say goodbye. As John couldn’t care less about Sherlock’s delivery, whatever it might be comprised of, he went back to his breakfast and finished it in silence. The tea was lukewarm and the toast unpleasantly cold, but it was food, and he had accustomed himself to grabbing what he could get these days.

The crossword didn’t present him with too many difficulties this morning and he was satisfied to note he had set himself a new time record in finishing it. He looked up and out the window and noticed it had stopped raining.

“It’s stopped raining,” he said.

“Oh yes,” came Sherlock’s voice. “The last drop fell a quarter of an hour ago or so, I believe.”

“Jesus. You could have let me know. It’s not been dry for weeks and I’d like to make the rounds of the shops without getting wet for once.”

“That’s not altogether true, John. We had a dry spell for four hours straight on Wednesday night two weeks ago. It remained overcast throughout, but not a drop of rain fell for the whole length of that period.”

“Great. You should have woken me up to enjoy them,” John quipped.

“I do remember considering it fleetingly but only two days prior to that night you had stated quite adamantly to never wake you unless it was for a case.”

John threw his friend a gander. It was a bit hard to discern his features behind the goggles but the expanse that was left exposed gave no indication that Sherlock was taking the piss out of him. Why Sherlock would want to wear his goggles while staring into his microscope was a different matter entirely, and one John didn’t care to investigate right then.

“Never mind,” he said. “Four hours of dry weather now will work fine for me.” He stood and went into the kitchen to clear away his plate and mug. After the washing up he gave the worktops a quick swipe and took a pair of shopping bags out of the cupboard beneath the sink.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demanded, whipping up his head and regarding John with the ferocity he usually levelled at either un-cooperative suspects or Sergeant Anderson.

“To do the shopping,” John answered, rolling his eyes.

“Christ, John. Couldn’t you have said so earlier? I’ve got a long list of supplies I’m in need of and now I’m right in the middle of my frog poison experiment.”

Snapping off his gloves and nudging his goggles up into his hair, Sherlock pushed his chair away from the table. John eyed the petri dishes strewn atop the kitchen table.

“Poison frogs?” 

“No. Frog poison,” Sherlock corrected him automatically. He wasn’t really paying attention to John, as he was too busy patting his dressing gown pockets. “Ah, here it is.” His face lit up.

“You’re experimenting with frog poison in our kitchen.” John tried to keep his voice level. The bewildered look Sherlock shot him didn’t really help. “Jesus, Sherlock. This is our kitchen; this is where I prepare the food we eat.”

“You eat most of it,” Sherlock remonstrated.

“That’s not… For God’s sake, Sherlock, you must be aware those poisons are incredibly dangerous.”

“Obviously. Hence I’ve taken every precaution while handling them.”

“In our _kitchen_!” thundered John.

“Where else am I supposed to conduct my experiments?” Sherlock looked genuinely flabbergasted by John’s irrational behaviour. “The bathroom is too small, what with the dog hair collection and the miniature lichen greenhouse. Besides, it would be inconvenient, as all my equipment is right here.”

“Sherlock, surely even you must understand the health hazard posed by poisons sprinkled freely about in an area where food for human consumption is prepared on a daily basis.”

“Of course. Like I said, that’s why I’ve been very careful. You’re supposed to listen when people tell you something, John. That’s only polite, or so I’ve been told. Now I have to repeat myself, which is highly annoying.”

“Talking about the pot calling the kettle black.” By now the altercation had reached the stage where John was ready to give up, convinced he’d never make Sherlock see reason. Sherlock’s evident bafflement at the expression he’d just used almost had him in giggles. Anger and worry prevailed, however.

“I fail to see what all the fuss is about,” Sherlock went on. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Don’t change the subject. That Miller bloke wouldn’t have hit a bull’s eye if he’d been standing half a yard in front of it.”

“I’m not referring to that moron and his pathetic attempt at shooting you, but to my experiments these past few months. I’ve been going through the whole range of poisons excreted by the more interesting species of the fauna world at this very table and you have never once objected.”

“What?” John felt ready to explode all over again but he knew it was useless. “Fine.” He pointed at the microscope. “You finish whatever you’re doing with this batch today, and that’s the last strain you’ll have a look at. I want them all out of the flat tomorrow morning at eight at the latest.”

“It is the latest,” Sherlock said smugly. “I just need to run a few more tests on them and then I can start writing my thesis and set up a new experiment. That’s where you come in. If you’re going to Tesco anyway it won’t be a hardship to get these for me.” With those words he handed John the piece of paper he had retrieved from his dressing robe pocket and, lowering the goggles onto his nose, sat down, mission accomplished.

One thing the army had taught John was to know when he was being dismissed. He sighed, picked up the shopping bags and went into the living room to don his coat. By the time the front door fell shut behind him the first fat drops were splattering on the pavement.

***

Three hours later the door fell shut behind John again. In the meantime his outward appearance had changed noticeably. He was soaked to the skin and shivering as violently as a drowning victim who had just been hauled out of the water. His shoes made a sloshing sound with every step. 

His outing to the shops had taken on a bizarre aspect when, once he was at Tesco, he examined Sherlock’s shopping list and discovered he was supposed to find his friend eighteen different kinds of fountain pen ink. Why Sherlock thought it likely Tesco would stock such an extensive range of this particular writing accessory was a line of inquiry John had chosen not to pursue. In fact, he hadn’t even gone in search of the ink at Tesco, but headed to a specialised stationery shop instead. The personnel there had been most accommodating; alas, their inventory sported but six different inks. They knew of another shop, however… 

By now John didn’t know whom he was most angry with. Sherlock, for his unreasonable requests – wasn’t this what internet shopping was invented for? – or himself, for going along with the persuasive bastard and spending three hours traipsing from shop to shop in a sodding cloudburst.

Sincerely grateful the hall carpet was already covered in so many stains a few more wouldn’t hurt, he flung himself in the direction of the stairs and proceeded to haul both himself and the dripping shopping bags up the seventeen steps. A nebulous noise floating down from the flat made him freeze on the landing. His ears soon interpreted it as the voice of Mycroft Holmes, berating his brother by the sound of it.

“… there is no need for your perennially childish behaviour,” Mycroft was saying. Sherlock’s answer was a dark rumble. 

For a moment, John considered dumping the bags and hoofing it out into the rain again. A fresh shiver shaking his whole frame advised him not to. He needed to change into something dry and heat up with a cup of tea, or he’d be sneezing his eyeballs out come tomorrow. The best course of action was probably to run into the kitchen and drop the bags, say his hellos and flee for the safety of his room straight after. On no account was he going to suffer being a witness to the Holmes brothers sniping at each other.

“This is an exceedingly delicate situation, Sherlock,” Mycroft chided in that tone of quiet exasperation he had probably perfected at the age of twelve. “And, considering the fact we’ve a possible murder on our hands, it should be just up your street.”

“I can’t. I’m busy,” drawled Sherlock. By now John had crept into the kitchen. Sherlock, he noted, was in front of the window, caressing his violin, his back deliberately turned on Mycroft, who had ensconced himself in John’s chair. The man’s ubiquitous umbrella leaned against the side, rolled up and perfectly dry.

“Statistically, chances are there is at least one person on your payroll with more than two functioning brain cells,” Sherlock snorted. “Go annoy them with your boring cases. Of course it is murder. The position of the bullet entry wound shows you the man would have had to be a contortionist to have done himself in that way. Even Dimmock would see this isn’t a suicide, and he stops at nothing to prove the first part of his surname is an accurate description of his level of intelligence.”

With the utmost care John lowered the bags to the floor.

“Your acquaintances and their various antics don’t interest me,” Mycroft countered. “In this file you can read the NYPD disagrees with your conclusion. I share your opinion the man was indeed murdered and I need you to find out for what reason. For if this means…”

What it meant was bound to remain a mystery, for right that second the plastic of one of the bags tore and its contents clattered onto the kitchen floor. The loud noise caused Sherlock to whip around and even Mycroft rotated his head to see what was happening behind him.

“Ah, John,” he said, pleasantly. “You’ve come at just the right time to help me convince my brother to do his duty by Queen and Country.”

John ignored him in favour of swearing loudly and dropping to his knees to collect the boxes, sacks and cans of food littering the floor. Thank God the breakable stuff – the ink bottles amongst other things – was in the other bag. 

Sherlock came sprinting into the kitchen. “Leave it be, John.” He shooed him up and away from the floor. “I’ll do it.”

One didn’t have to be a genius consulting detective to understand the reason for Sherlock’s burst of attentiveness. Not being one to look a gift horse into the mouth, John decided to accept his flatmate’s offer of help.

“I’m going up to change,” he announced, flashing his hand in front of his chest to indicate his soggy state.

Upstairs in his room he got rid of his sodden clothes, towelled himself off and pulled his warmest jumper out of the dresser. Once dressed he eased himself with his new James Bond novel into the comfy wicker chair next to the window to await Mycroft’s departure. It wasn’t exactly a hardship – John had never heard of the novel’s author, a William Boyd, before, but the guy sure knew how to build a proper plot. Still, his cowardly behaviour prodded at his conscience. 

Here he was – a decorated war hero who had invaded Afghanistan – hiding from a civilian armed with nothing more lethal than a ludicrously expensive brolly. _And_ with the means and a penchant for kidnapping people off the streets in broad daylight, he reminded himself. Still, what would his mates say if they saw him like this? Surely he should go down and aid his friend in his ongoing battle with his sibling. In the end, his sensible self advised him no one was more apt at this particular kind of warfare than Sherlock – who had after all spent his whole life perfecting it – so he stayed put and read on, until he heard Mycroft’s heavy tread descend the stairs. Only then did he venture down again. 

There, a pleasant surprise awaited him. The kitchen floor was spotless and a quick inventory showed that Sherlock had even taken it upon himself to stash away the contents of the other shopping bag. The kettle was boiling. John switched it off.

“I gathered you might be in need of a cup of our national brew,” Sherlock said. He was sorting the bottles of ink on the mantelpiece. “I’ll have some as well while you’re at it.”

It was a gesture of a kind, John supposed, so he prepared their tea, arranged some hobnobs on a plate, and carried the lot on a tray into the living room. 

“What did Mycroft want?” he asked. In lieu of an answer Sherlock gestured contemptuously in the direction of the table before flinging himself into his chair. One of Mycroft’s files perched on top of the disarray of graphics that once again covered the table top. It was easily recognisable by its ominous drab grey colour.

“Something boring,” he sniffed. “I tuned him out three seconds after he’d gained himself entry to the flat.”

John snorted at the mental image of the British Government forcing its way into the homes of law-abiding British citizens. On second thought, the idea struck him as not that farfetched at all. Quelling the implication of that consideration he said, “He mentioned a murder, didn’t he?”

“A two-week-old contract job in the States, John. The photographs prove their police force consists of even bigger amateurs than those flocking at Broadway. A stampeding herd of wildebeest couldn’t have inflicted more damage to the crime scene than their so-called forensic team. There’s nothing left for me there to work with. Besides, if I had to solve all the murders committed worldwide every day, I’d have no time left for my experiments.”

“Much to the improvement of the state of our kitchen,” John couldn’t refrain from murmuring.  
“Why is Mycroft interested then?” he probed. Even if Mycroft sported the same morbid hobbies as his younger sibling, John couldn’t imagine the man had enough time on his hands to indulge them.

“It’s a longstanding rule of mine to never trouble myself with trying to discern Mycroft’s motives. In the end they revolve around a power complex fuelled by the need to restrain his perpetual craving for sticky toffee pudding. Have a look at the file if you’re so desperate to find out.”

John started to object that the material was probably classified and hence not for him to peruse, but he was interrupted by the loud ringing of Sherlock’s mobile.

“It’s Lestrade,” Sherlock announced after a glance at the display, and straightened himself in his chair.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he chimed. His face assumed an attentive expression. John used the interval to sip his tea and polish off most of the hobnobs.

“Excellent. We’ll be with you in twenty minutes,” Sherlock ended the call. In one leap he was out of his chair and near the door, arranging his scarf around his neck.

“A good one,” he beamed. “Apparent family drama. Some banker, up to his ears in a financial debacle – aren’t they all these days? – his wife, and their son. They were found at home in a locked room in by the eldest daughter this morning, without a trace of the weapon that did them in.”

“Exciting enough to lure you away from your frog poison?” quipped John.

“I finished that two hours after you’d left,” Sherlock sniffed, giving the scarf a final tug. “A triple murder, oh, finally something fun is going on again.” He rubbed his hands in glee. “Come on, John.” Impatiently, he waved for John to hurry up.

Outside, sheets of rain were still pouring down from the heavens. Thankfully, Sherlock had but to raise his hand for a cab to magically materialise next to the kerb so John’s head and shoulders were mostly dry when he installed himself in the backseat.

***

“Well, that was depressingly simple to solve,” Sherlock seethed scarcely two hours later. “Really, Lestrade, I’m aware logical thought isn’t your forte, but you could try and make more of an effort before deciding to lure John and me to the other side of London for a non-existent problem, in such weather to boot.”

Hands stuck deep into the pockets of his trench coat, the DI let the scatter of scathing reprimands rain down on him without as much as a twist of his mouth.

“Are you done?” he enquired when Sherlock halted momentarily to draw breath. “Then I’ll remind you I’ve repeatedly told you in the past I won’t stand for you abusing my people in public.” Bobbing his head in the direction of the female constable Donovan was busy consoling while shooting murderous glances in Sherlock’s direction, he continued, “You can call me whatever name you want, as I don’t hear it anymore, but I won’t tolerate that kind of behaviour directed at anyone on my team.”

“Listen, Lestrade…”

“No, _you listen_ , Sherlock. You can start behaving yourself or I won’t call you next time.”

“I can’t help it you insist on surrounding yourself with hopeless incompetents!” Sherlock bit out, his voice rising in what he undoubtedly considered justified anger. Beside him John face-palmed, converting the gesture at the last second into what he hoped resembled an urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Why don’t you say you’re sorry to Greg?” he suggested in an undertone. “You definitely crossed the line with Constable Davies, Sherlock. She’s still new to the force, after all.”

“John?” Sherlock was all wounded indignation, but John didn’t budge and wriggled his eyebrows at him.

After some more glaring Sherlock gave in. “Oh, fine.” Shrugging his shoulders to emphasise both his displeasure and disdain for the ridiculous demands of ordinary – boring – people, Sherlock droned, “Apologies for telling Constable Davies to find herself something useful to do, Lestrade.”

“And,” John prompted. 

“And for calling her a bungling idiot and the final proof man couldn’t have been made in God’s image for God would never have wished for such a massive moron to resemble him,” Sherlock gritted out. 

“All right.” Greg tipped up his chin. For an instant John was afraid he’d make Sherlock repeat his apologies to the constable but he shouldn’t have underestimated their friend. “That will do, Sherlock. Next time I won’t be so lenient.” With that he gave them both a curt nod and sauntered off.

Sherlock’s eyes spat fire after him, but it seemed that over the years the DI had become impervious to irate consulting detectives’ attempts to burn a hole in his back by sheer, concentrated will power. 

“Right.” Carefully, John nudged Sherlock’s arm. “We’d better go,” he said.

Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh, looking as if he were about to launch a torrent of scathing opinions onto the world at large and anyone in a ten-yard radius in particular. After a last scalding glare at Constable Davies he folded the panels of his coat around him and prepared to depart from the crime scene in a flurry of swirl and drama. The sound of Greg’s mobile chiming just then halted him. John could swear he literally _saw_ Sherlock perk up his ears.

“Yes,” Greg said into the phone. “What? Another one? Fucking hell! – When was this? – Oh, hey, that’s good, gives us something to go on. – Address? – Moore House, Gatliff Road. That’s Pimlico, isn’t it? – Right, give me an hour at least. I’m currently rounding up that murder at St German’s Place. Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess. – Yeah. Sorry about that. Just, don’t touch anything, okay? – No, no, I’ll bring in my own forensic team. – Yeah. – Okay, thanks. See you.”

During the call Greg had slowly swivelled a hundred and eighty degrees around his axis, until he was staring straight at Sherlock by the time he ended the conversation. 

“Looks like you’ll have a chance to redeem yourself,” the DI told Sherlock, his mouth twitching wryly. “You lucky sod. A professional job, it looks like. We’ve got a witness, it seems, and a description. You got the address, I suppose.”

While Lestrade was speaking at him Sherlock’s deportment had brightened greatly. His face beamed with the barely suppressed excitement of a schoolboy who’d just been trusted with an important task by his favourite master. He was nodding with so much enthusiasm John felt he ought to warn against his friend ending up in the nearest A&E with whiplash if he didn’t collect himself soon.

“We’ll find ourselves a cab,” Sherlock breathed, all roaring to go. “Come on, John.” Without further ado he careered off in the direction of the stairs. 

“John.” Greg laid a gentle hand on John’s arm. “With his uncanny ability to conjure up a cab in the middle of nowhere, you’ll probably arrive at Moore House way ahead of me. Try to restrain him from bursting in on the people guarding the scene, would you? He’s actually incredibly useful to us all, and I’d hate to have to ban him indefinitely for something as unnecessary as gross breach of conduct.”

A flare of anger sparked in John’s chest upon hearing Greg’s words. They sketched out his friend as a social disaster, intent on wreaking emotional havoc wherever he went, and struck John as wrong and unfair. Sherlock didn’t mean it that way; surely Greg must be aware of that. Just when John opened his mouth to tell Greg he didn’t care for the veiled implications of his request, Sally snuck past them, guiding Constable Davies. The sight of the young constable’s tear-streaked face and slumping shoulders had John concede Greg might in fact have a point. His flatmate wasn’t a sociopath – probably – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t extremely accomplished at acting like one.

“Apart from the fact it would drive him round the bend if I weren’t able to call him in any longer,” Greg elaborated, thereby proving even further John’s little upsurge of irritation was totally unjustified.

“Yeah,” he murmured, grateful for having such a great friend as Greg. “I get it. But you know what he’s like when he…”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice came roaring from downstairs, signalling impatience with the subtlety of a full orchestra halfway through the opening bars of ‘The Flight of the Valkyrie’.

“Look. I’ll just… I’ll give it my best, all right?” John promised a huffing Lestrade before breaking into a trot to join Sherlock.

“Good luck,” Greg called after him. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll text you, all right?”

***

Back in Afghanistan John had often volunteered for missions that were generally deemed highly dangerous. He’d never had to think twice before adding his name to the list; after all, he hadn’t enlisted in the army to twiddle his thumbs, and, frankly, he’d thought of himself as better at dodging a bullet than most.

Until it turned out he wasn’t. 

However, if one had asked him then whether he thought that munching away on a delicious cheddar and tomato sandwich in an upmarket café while contemplating the pleasant, albeit rather wet, view of one of Pimlico’s nicer streets would be just as fraught with apprehension as any of those forays into enemy territory, he’d have snorted and shaken his head in amusement. True, the scenario hadn’t taken into account the presence of a twitchingly volatile consulting detective who sat fiddling with his – undrunk – coffee, tapping the tabletop with querulous fingers, and a snarl on his features that was guaranteed to instil the Fear of God into even the most foolhardy of atheists.

“For Christ’s sake, John,” Sherlock wailed. “We really should go. I’ll admit a snail walking the picket line is generally faster than Lestrade on the best of days but even he is bound to have arrived by now.”

After washing down his last bite with a swig of his – genuinely excellent, he must remember this place – tea, John replied in his best Captain John H. Watson RAMC voice, “Greg said he’d text. He hasn’t texted yet. So we’ll wait. That’s final, Sherlock.”

“But it’s a murder!” exploded Sherlock. “You’re forcing me watching you stuff yourself while there’s a murderer out there, John. How can you even sit… Oh, you’re impossible.” 

“So it seems. Well, we all have our share of weal and woe in life. Now, do you think this place has a loo?”

“Over there on the left,” Sherlock responded sourly, grasping his mug so tightly John feared for the earthenware’s safety.

“You’ll be here when I return?” he asked, lightly.

His friend grunted for an answer. John took this to mean ‘yes’ so he set off for the loo. 

The relief washing over him when he found upon his return that Sherlock was still fidgeting on the seat, right where he’d left him, made him feel momentarily disgusted with himself. Did he really trust Sherlock so little? On the other hand, the man had galloped off without John often enough, so John reckoned his misgivings weren’t wholly without justification.

He was about to order another cup of tea when his mobile buzzed. It was a text from Greg informing them that he’d arrive on the spot in five minutes.

“Okay, let’s go.” He’d barely pronounced the words before Sherlock shot up from his seat and out the door, to all appearances oblivious to the fact that the weather had taken a turn for the worse. John sighed and went over to the cash register to pay for their fare. The girl staffing the counter shot him a sympathetic wink when she made to hand him the change. 

“Keep it,” he said, smiling at her. “That sandwich was definitely worth a detour. Do you also do deliveries in Marylebone?”

“Oh yes. Here’s our card.” With deft fingers she picked up a card, but hesitated before giving it to him. “Wait.” She grabbed a pen and wrote down a name and a phone number. “I’m Samantha. I’d love to bring you a sandwich, and we do a very nice pumpkin soup as well. Hot and spicy. If you ring around sixish I could take it over to you myself, eh…”

“John,” he supplied. “That sounds like an excellent idea.” 

He plucked the card from between her fingers, careful to brush his fingertips past hers and shoot her his most winning smile, and headed out into a deluge of nearly biblical proportions. Through the geyser of water jetted into his eyes he could just make out the tailpieces of Sherlock’s coat flailing around the corner with the graceful motion of a manta ray navigating its saltwater realm.

***

“Go ahead.” With a grand gesture Greg lifted the crime scene tape and motioned for them to pass. 

“Which flat?” queried Sherlock, with that smug, semi-enquiring look that informed John his friend already had at least eight ideas about the scene they were about to investigate, never mind it was a capital mistake to theorise before one had data. 

“Number twenty-four,” Greg reported, scanning the battered little notebook he always had handy, much like Sherlock’s classier _Moleskine_. “The victim is a Professor Thomas Hollingberry. He worked both at the Imperial College and in Cambridge, quite a bigwig in chemistry apparently. The suspect had an appointment, something about a job application, I understand. He’s a Geert van Scheveningen from The Netherlands. Let’s go have a look, shall we? The lifts are this way.”

At the mention of the flat number the smugness had left Sherlock’s face. “How can you be so sure this…” He made a sound like he was trying to retch. “…is your suspect?” he enquired in a tone more belligerent than usual.

“Because we have a witness who saw the suspect flee the flat with blood dripping from his hands just before she discovered the dead man sitting in his chair. She reported the body was still warm,” Greg answered. “That seems quite substantial to me.”

“To you, yes,” snorted Sherlock, his tone conveying his opinion on Greg’s thought processes loud and clear.

“So, because the witness saw this…” He produced the strange sound again. “…you decided to have the whole building declared a crime scene.”

“I told them to expect you, so they decided they’d rather be safe than sorry. You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?” Greg turned around to throw Sherlock a worried glance. John had started to wonder the same; he wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock was on the brink of falling victim to the flu. What with the state of the weather lately and Sherlock’s insistence in ignoring it...

“What…?” Sherlock’s look was one of almost comical bewilderment. Then his features cleared and his voice took on a haughty aspect while he declared, “I can’t help it you can’t pronounce the Dutch hard _g_ properly, Lestrade. Your suspect’s name is Geert van Scheveningen and not Dzjeet vaen Skeeveeningin.”

“Oh,” Greg said, a frown creasing his brow. “Tell me,” he endeavoured next. “Do you have to work hard at being a bloody nuisance all the time?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in answer. By now they’d arrived on the first floor. The lift opened onto a small hall clad in white marble with four doors set into the facing wall. One of these was open with a constable standing next to it. Through the flat’s hallway one could look into the living room and at the leaden-grey sky visible through the huge windows.

John and Greg greeted the constable as they walked inside. Sherlock swept past the man without so much as a murmur.

“No one has touched anything,” Greg assured them, while handing John a pair of gloves. Sherlock had snapped on a pair from the endless supply stashed in one of his coat’s pockets and got out his magnifier as well. He was wrapped up in a close scrutiny of the door handle by the time John had his gloves on. 

“There are some traces of wetness there beneath your suspect’s fingerprints,” Sherlock said. “Someone wearing suede gloves visited Hollingberry shortly before Mr van Scheveningen.”

“Or van Scheveningen wore them,” objected John.

“Perhaps. But then why would he take them off so he could leave his bloodied fingerprints on the door handle?” 

Sherlock did have a point there, so John nodded and looked around the hallway. It was quite different from what one would expect in these modern, highbrow flats. The walls were covered from top to bottom in paintings depicting stormy landscapes and seascapes. There were so many of them it appeared the paintings had been collected for the picture they represented and not for their artistic quality. The hallstand was an antique that was far too big for the small space. 

Sherlock had fallen to his knees and was now busy eyeballing the hardwood flooring through the magnifier. To give him some working space John and the DI stepped into the living room. It was like walking into a distorted time travel cubicle. The pair of forensic experts in their blue overalls that greeted John and Greg looked as out of place in the room as a couple of green Martians abducted to planet Earth.

The great floor-to-ceiling windows gave an unencumbered view of the canal and the neighbouring blocks of modern buildings. The room’s interior was an exact replica of a nineteenth-century bachelor’s den as conceived by the BBC’s prop department. Plush, velvet drapes hung on either side of the window. The walls were covered with a heavily embossed wallpaper in that copper-green colour the Victorians had admired so, and the production of which had led to the early demise of the poor people whose task it had been to produce it. Sturdy walnut and mahogany furniture left little wandering space and the eye was drawn inevitably to yet more landscapes, covering the walls in rows from top to bottom.

A sumptuous desk – even grander than the ones John had seen in Mycroft’s various offices – stood in a recess to the left of the room. Draped over the chair behind it were the remains of the late Thomas Hollingberry, his ascetic features with the tiny reading glasses resting on the sharp nose contorted with pain beneath eyes that were open wide in almost comical surprise. The Prussian blue quilted velvet of his _robe de chambre_ was soaked with the blood that had escaped from the three neat little holes ripped in the cloth.

John felt the man’s cheek. “He can’t have been dead for more than two hours,” he said.

“That’s about right,” Greg answered. “Look, I’ll be off to warn the witness about Sherlock’s interrogation technique. You keep an eye on him here, all right?”

“I’ll give it my best,” promised John.

“Well,” Greg sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Apart from Mrs Hudson and that mysterious brother of his, you’re the only one he’s inclined to listen to every now and then so I’ll just have to trust you.” With that parting shot he cleared out of the room. John could hear him addressing Sherlock and the consulting detective’s distracted answering rumble – his tone indicating he was telling Greg to sod off – and then an eerie quiet descended on the flat.

John bent over Hollingberry’s desk. An open laptop sat on the right-hand side. It sprang to life when John tapped one of the keys to show a background of – unsurprisingly perhaps – a torrential storm pouring down on the Houses of Parliament, and the highlighted announcement that the laptop was locked. Among the rest of the jumble on the desk he discovered the deceased’s agenda. A glance showed him the professor had led a busy academic life. Numerous appointments were scribbled over the pages – Geert van Scheveningen’s name prominent among them, jotted down in red ink, underlined several times and with the word ‘important’ in capital letters next to the name. Bloody fingerprints covered the paper and the top page of a stack of paper on the right side of the desk. Several balled-up sheets were lying at John’s feet. Someone had evidently tried to wipe their hands on the glossy printing paper and found themselves thwarted in their efforts by the material’s silky texture.

“Stay where you are, John. You’ve already trampled over the evidence as it is.” The sudden sound of Sherlock’s voice startled John out of his contemplation of the desk and its immediate surroundings. The detective had crept into the living room on his hands and knees, an evidence bag in his right hand. Every now and then he halted to pick something up from the floor and deposit it into the bag. With the black folds of his coat pooling around him and his face close to the floor, magnifier almost glued to his right eye and his nose but an inch from the hardwood, he resembled a giant raven, sniffing its way to the carrion that had pulled itself into the underbrush with the last of its dying breath. Close to the desk, he launched himself into the air and past John to stab a sharp finger at the sombre picture that hung behind the desk. The painting depicted a thunderstorm, about to bear down upon the sorry remains of a shipwreck with a handful of pitiable survivors clinging to the hull. A very realistic hole gaped in the side of the ship. The gap was, however, not a clever depiction of a cannonball that had splintered the wood, but the result of a bullet tearing through the linen.

“There,” Sherlock said, satisfaction dripping from his voice. “Hollingberry was standing behind the desk, ready to greet Mr van Scheveningen, when he was confronted with another visitor, someone he wasn’t expecting…”

“He had an appointment with this Van Scheveningen bloke,” John pointed out. “Why suppose someone would have visited him instead?”

“Oh, Van Scheveningen was here.” Sherlock dismissed John’s remark with a snide little wave of his hand, the evidence bag almost fluttering into John’s face. It held an assortment of short dark hairs, John noted. “Anderson will show us shortly that the fingerprints dotted all over the place are van Scheveningen’s with a few of the witness’ thrown in for good measure… obviously.” His eyes dropped to the back of Hollingberry’s head. “The other bullets didn’t pass through the body. Not that they will tell us anything. I’m convinced they’ll prove to be homemade products.”

“Right.” Staring at his friend, who was now as good as folded over the dead man’s laptop, John said, “You’re totally brilliant, of course, but would you mind trying to enlighten me, _if_ you think that’s at all possible?”

“Look, John.” Gesturing grandly in the direction of the laptop, Sherlock swept aside to allow John an unencumbered view of an Excel sheet brimming with formulas and numbers and sporting so many zeros John decided he wasn’t even going to try translating them into something he’d understand. 

“Well, _that_ certainly explains everything,” John said in his most sarcastic tone. 

“Really?” For an instant Sherlock looked sincerely confused. John savoured every bit of it to the fullest before Sherlock regained himself and curled his lip in disparagement. “Of course I agree with you that Amy Winehouse’s untimely demise was a far more newsworthy event than Professor Hollingberry’s murder will prove to be, never mind the man was one of the most important chemists of our age.” 

Two weeks earlier they had gone through one of their fruitless fusses about Sherlock’s general disinterest in most of the world at large, and popular culture in particular. Shocked to learn Sherlock had never heard of Amy Winehouse, John had forced his flatmate to listen to at least three songs from her latest album. The endeavour to acquaint Sherlock with modern music hadn’t been much of a success – for either of them. 

“Why don’t you save the dramatics for some other time and explain, Sherlock?” John returned the volley with equal ferocity.

After closing his eyes briefly, as if he were invoking the guardian saint of consulting detectives for patience, Sherlock opened them again to lock his gaze with John’s. 

“Knowledge is power,” he announced and turned back to the laptop. “And Hollingberry, it seems, was a genius. What you see here is a formula that …” Sherlock never got to finish his explanation of the incomprehensible mess on the spreadsheet, for the next instant he spread his hands wide and clapped them in front of his face, his eyes flashing with delight.

“Of course,” he breathed, excitement radiating from him in huge billowing waves, “I should have seen… How stupid of me…”

“Say that again,” John prompted but Sherlock didn’t heed him. Instead he whisked up his phone, speed-dialled, and put it against his ear.

“I thought you had them all under surveillance,” he barked into it. John caught a faint whiff of the voice on the other side of the line. To his amazement it sounded like Mycroft.

“Hollingberry, the famous chemist. I’m at his flat now. – Shot two hours ago, maybe three. – What do you mean not let anyone in? The Met is already out in full force. – I’m… – Yes, thank you for nothing too, Mycroft.”

A furious expression twisted Sherlock’s features by the time he ended the call.

“Arse,” he said.

“Now could you…” began John, but Sherlock was already bouncing out of the room. “We need to look for a man with a dog, John,” he shouted back over his shoulder. John sighed, threw a last look at the incongruous décor and the body of the unfortunate chemist, nodded at the pair of forensics experts still frozen in their corner, and sprinted after Sherlock.

Greg was waiting for them in the hallway. “Find anything interesting?” His gaze travelled down Sherlock’s arm towards the evidence bag still dangling from his hand.

“Not much,” Sherlock answered, shooting John a quick warning glance.

“What’s in the bag then?” Greg nodded meaningfully towards the discussed item.

“Nothing you’d understand,” Sherlock growled. “Now, didn’t you have a witness? I need to ask him a question.”

“It’s a her, actually. A Miss Whitbourne, she lives on the third floor.” Greg hit the button to summon the lift. “Look, Sherlock,” he said once they were ensconced in the cubicle again. “You can talk to her but only if you promise to go easy on her. She got a nasty shock and…”

“For God’s sake, Lestrade, what do you take me for?” Sherlock burst out. “Some kind of idiot?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that but you’ll have to admit, you’re not exactly the cuddling type.”

“No, that’s what I’ve got John for.”

“Hey, look …” John started to protest but he was cut short by the ping of the lift bell announcing they’d arrived at the third floor. A scene similar to the one two floors down greeted them when the lift doors slid open. 

“Remember what I said,” Greg warned. Sherlock ignored him and strode into Miss Whitbourne’s flat, Greg and John hurrying in his wake. In the sparsely decorated living room, a beautiful woman in her thirties perched on an expensive, buff-leather sofa that dominated the whole chamber. The orange shock blanket draped over her fashionably thin shoulders clashed violently with the tasteful, mute colouring of the apartment. The face rising above it was deathly pale, the cheeks glistening from the tears rolling down then and the eyes smudged with mascara and eye shadow that must have been applied with the utmost care that morning. A female constable sat beside her, stroking her back and keeping up a soft murmur.

“Miss Whitbourne?” Greg said gently, planting himself between Sherlock and the woman. “This is Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. They consult with the police occasionally and would like to ask you some questions. Do you think you can answer them now?”

The woman bit her lower lip and nodded. From his position behind Greg’s back, John threw her his most encouraging smile. Sherlock shouldered Greg aside to invade her personal space. 

“Did the man you saw have a dog with him?” he enquired. “About this high, with short black hair.” He waved with his hand about halfway up his calf.

Miss Whitbourne looked up at him in bewilderment. “What?” she croaked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in an exaggerated plea for tolerance with the general stupidity in the room. “You speak English, don’t you?” he snarled at her. “Did he have a dog with him?”

“Nnnoo! No, he didn’t. All I saw was the blood dripping from his hands and… and he had this…” She fell silent, staring after Sherlock, who had pivoted at the first ‘no’ and was halfway across the room, having successfully dodged John’s attempt to grab his elbow to bring him to heel. 

“Sherlock!” Greg barked, but Sherlock barged on, so Greg and John both made their apologies to Miss Whitbourne, who broke out into fresh tears and tripped over their toes to catch up with him.

“Jesus bloody Christ, Sherlock. What did I tell you?” Greg shouted at the consulting detective, who stood awaiting them in front of the lift. 

Impatiently, Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “She’s useless, Lestrade. Didn’t see a thing. You’re wasting your time with her.”

“She saw Geert van Scheveningen coming out of Hollingberry’s flat with blood on his clothes and his hands. She identified him from the photograph in his passport. He flew in this morning for a meeting with Hollingberry, set up so he could kill him.”

“Fine. Don’t let me keep you from being an idiot, Lestrade. You find Geert van Scheveningen so he can tell you he discovered Hollingberry bleeding from his wounds and got the blood all over him when he tried to assist him. Meanwhile, I’ll catch you the real murderer then, shall I? Come on, John.”

Throwing Greg a last withering look, Sherlock dashed for the stairs next to the lifts. John raised his eyebrows apologetically at Greg before rushing after him. On the stairs up to the first floor he nearly bowled the two of them over. Sherlock had skidded to a halt halfway up and was crouched on all fours again, inspecting the steps through his magnifier. 

“Stop, John.” He raised a hand in warning. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Sherlock utter such a rubbish remark. 

“I hope you realise you’re skating on thin ice with regard to Greg’s patience,” John said.

“Who?” Sherlock asked in a distracted manner. “Oh,” he cooed next. “Excellent! Stay back, John.” He produced his phone and proceeded to photograph the steps beneath John from several angles. John peered at the steps’ white marble but could detect nothing more exciting than a wet gleam on them. 

“What are you looking for?” Instead of bothering with an answer Sherlock flicked through the photographs on his phone. “These will have to do,” John heard him mutter. After stashing his phone back into his pocket he pulled forth his small multi-tool and a couple of slides from another pocket. Carefully, he began to scrape some of the wetness off the steps and onto the slides. Recognising his chances of his questions being heeded were close to nil, John leant against the wall until his friend was done.

“Can I step on them now?” he asked when Sherlock stood and made his way down the remaining steps.

“What? Oh, yes.” Sherlock was already fiddling with his phone again, ducking under the crime scene tape and heading through the revolving glass door without really looking where he was going. Outside he raised his arm and a taxi immediately screeched to a stop next to the kerb. Sherlock was about to step in when he stooped down instead and peered closely at the gutter. 

“Are you going to get in or not, mate?” the cabbie enquired. “I’m not allowed to park here.”

“One moment, please.” John shot the man his friendliest smile. “My friend dropped something.” 

Just when he lowered his head to tell Sherlock to get a move on, Sherlock fished something out of the gutter and straightened up again. 

“You’re clever but not that clever,” John heard him mumble. It was only thanks to John’s still sharp soldier instincts that his chin didn’t collide with the back of Sherlock’s head.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock cast John a befuddled look before veering into the cab with his usual smooth grace, leaving John standing in the rain on the pavement, looking like a hapless fool. “221B Baker Street,” he instructed the cabbie. “Come on, John.”

“We’re going home then?” The instant the words were out John could have slapped himself for posing such obvious questions. 

Sure enough Sherlock replied, “Obviously. Seeing as that was our address when we left to have a look at Lestrade’s boring crime scene.”

The driver eyed them in his rear view mirror. The man’s perusal convinced John the best course of action would be to plaster the inconspicuous smile to his face once more and engage himself in an intense study of the wet London streets trailing past the window on his side. Sherlock obliged him by refraining from further conspicuous remarks in favour of firing off one text after another for the entirety of their journey. When the cab rolled to a halt in front of 221B he jumped out and bounded for the front door, leaving it to John to handle such mundane details as paying the fare.

“I’ll admit he’s a looker but I can’t say I envy you, mate,” the cabbie said.

“We’re not…” John started automatically but the cab was already turning away from the kerb. Its churning wheels launched a surge of water, which splashed over John’s shoes and lower legs, soaking him to the skin.

*** 

Upstairs John found Sherlock staring daggers at Mycroft, who had entrenched himself in John’s chair for the second time that day. The minor government official was busy accepting a mug of tea and a plate with her special walnut date cake from a simpering Mrs Hudson.

“That smells delicious. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” Mycroft expressed his approval, gracing her with his warmest smile. It reminded John of the nature documentary on the feeding habits of the king cobra he’d flicked past on the telly three evenings ago.

“You eat up, dear,” Mrs Hudson tittered at Mycroft. “Surely we all must sacrifice a bit, what with the national debt and all, but for the government to deny their employees their tea, that’s a disgrace if ever I heard one.”

Mycroft absolved himself from the need to comment by taking a bite of his cake, closing his eyes in bliss and humming vague, approving noises. No doubt this behaviour was but an example of the crafty politics he resorted to when the European Union budget talks threatened to go pear-shaped.

“Would you boys like some tea as well? The kettle has just boiled.” Sherlock disregarded Mrs Hudson’s question in favour of intensifying the glare he was directing at Mycroft – who ate on, unperturbed by his younger brother’s hostile reaction to his presence.

“Yes, please, Mrs H,” John replied for both of them. “And I wouldn’t mind a slice of your cake as well.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “Sorry, John. I just gave Mycroft the last one. I can go down and fetch you some biscuits if you’re hungry.” 

Resigned, John shook his head to indicate that wouldn’t be necessary. “We still have some hobnobs left,” he said. “Would you care for one?”

Meanwhile Sherlock lanced at his brother. “What are you doing here?” 

Fixing Sherlock with the deadly cobra stare, Mycroft chewed, swallowed, and deflected the attack by raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “If memory serves, you were the one who called me, brother mine,” he tutted. “I’d rather not discuss this over the phone.”

“As you have the flat under constant surveillance, I don’t see how you visiting here in person makes a jot of difference. Unless your intention was to rile me, in which case you’ve succeeded. Congratulations. Now get out!” 

Mycroft tsk’ed at his younger sibling, while shaking his head in an insultingly slow manner. “I had the surveillance switched off, Sherlock.” His voice was saturated with the weary exasperation of a teacher who had long since given up on his task of instructing a particularly wayward ten-year-old. “It always is during my visits.” Scrutinising the inside of his mug of tea and putting it aside with a weary sigh, he added, “For the duration of them.” 

A long time ago, John had vowed he’d let no revelation with regard to the Holmes brothers upset him ever again. The sudden realisation that the extensive snogging session he had been enjoying on the sofa a week and a half ago with his latest date, a buxom blonde by the name of Brenda – until it was interrupted by Sherlock returning earlier than promised from St Bart’s with a shopping bag filled to overflowing with various parts of the human anatomy – had in all probability been recorded for posterity, shook this resolve rather deeply.

“What are you…” He turned towards Mycroft, determined to resort to force if necessary to defend Brenda’s honour. 

“Don’t worry, John,” Mycroft precluded him, his gaze still centred on Sherlock, “all the uninteresting material is erased after twenty-four hours. The British government can’t afford to waste precious server space on something as banal as the average citizen’s rather uninspiring sex life.”

Vacillating between outrage and relief John accepted the mug of tea Mrs Hudson held out to him. 

“Oh, John,” she gasped, catching sight of his shoes. “How can you stand there with your shoes all wet? Do go up and change into something dry, dear, or you’ll catch your death. And you being a doctor and all.”

“It’s fine.” John tried to wave her off, but she clung to the subject with the ferocious tenacity of a mosquito that has discovered a particularly sweet-smelling, warm body in the vicinity. In the end he caved in under the relentless mothering and fled upstairs to his room to change.

By the time he returned Mrs Hudson had left the scene and the brothers had dug themselves into position on either side of the mantelpiece. Silently, John perched himself on the sofa. He lived under no illusion that either of the brothers hadn’t noticed him, but he hoped that by keeping quiet they would continue their conversation and allow him to get a glimpse at last of what was going on exactly.

“I agree we must get hold this Van Scheveningen before your acquaintances at New Scotland Yard do,” Mycroft was saying. In pronouncing the name his throat conjured the same unpleasant noises Sherlock’s had. “But your method of procuring him strikes me as grasping at straws. What makes you think you can trust these people?”

“The same reason that makes you distrust the people working for you,” Sherlock snapped. “I’ve got his passport, right? That means he doesn’t intend to flee the country – like Lestrade expects him to do, you’ve seen the communiqués he sent out – but to hide until this blows over and the true murderer is caught. What better place to hide than the human cesspit of London itself?”

“Yes. I understand his reasoning, and yours. But you’ll agree in the short term it will be more lucrative to rob him of his clothes and his cash than turn him over to you,” objected Mycroft.

“We’ll just have to trust to chance, then,” Sherlock replied icily. “And to the fact that his actions so far indicate he’s not a total moron.”

“I don’t trust to chance,” enjoined Mycroft. 

“You did when you failed to place Hollingberry under surveillance,” Sherlock was quick to retort. 

“Hollingberry refused our offer, claiming he had nothing to be afraid off,” Mycroft informed him. John had expected Mycroft to look smug and was surprised his expression might more adequately be described as wistful.

“Oh.” Sherlock appeared to be lost for words but the moment passed quickly. “Looks like an IQ near to two hundred doesn’t stop one from being an idiot. Maybe I should reconsider our options of unearthing Van Scheveningen.”

“No.” Mycroft levered himself up and out of John’s chair with the aid of his umbrella and a weary sigh. “Van Scheveningen provides us with the shortest route to finding the murderer and the people who paid him. I’ll have my own people looking for him as well. Call me as soon as you’ve found him.”

“I’ll just shout.”

“That won’t be any use. This situation is so delicate I won’t have the surveillance reinstalled until the case is solved.”

“Do you hear that, John?” Sherlock asked.

“I do,” John answered. “No use to me, though, as thanks to you I don’t have anyone to perform with at the moment.”

“I’m willing to lend you the skull,” offered Sherlock, lifting it from the mantelpiece and holding it out to John.

“Very droll,” Mycroft commented with thin lips. “Obviously it has never occurred to you our relations would be much more congenial if you’d consent to acting like a grown-up every now and then.”

“Perhaps I don’t care for congenial relations with you,” Sherlock said, shrugging.

The cobra look lit up in Mycroft’s eyes again, but rather than answering he made his exit, his ramrod-straight back contrasting dangerously with the gentle swing of his umbrella. 

***

“So what you’re saying is that scientists world-wide are engaged in some sort of government-funded scheme to save the environment by using water as an endlessly renewable source of energy.”

“Hmm, yes. Though I doubt concerns for the environment motivate Mycroft in forwarding the funds. I bet his incentive lies in the prospect of another opportunity to stick his fat fingers into even more pies,” Sherlock replied absentmindedly, flicking his fingers in the direction of the edge of the kitchen table, where a line of prepared slides lay awaiting his perusal. “Hand me that slide.”

John did as he was bid, took a sip of his tea and mused, “And now it appears someone has found out about the scheme and decided to put it to a halt by killing the scientists working on it. And Hollingberry was one of them.”

“Yes.” Sherlock sniffed. “A ludicrous approach that might have worked in the Middle Ages. But then, these oil companies are led by men with the intelligence and morals of your average robber baron so the method fits, I suppose. Hah, there I have you. American pit bull. I hope this quick find will convince you that my dog hair collection is indispensable, John, unlike your grooming products, which are ineffectual anyway.”

“They’re not.” John straightened in his chair, highly offended. “Women like them.”

“Fine.” Sherlock brushed off the subject, ready to move on to more immediate concerns. Refusing to be deterred that easily, John continued, “The girl at the cash register in the café flirted with me.”

“She’s in a long-term relationship with the cook. They were having an argument the whole time you kept me prisoner there. She must have grabbed her chance to give him his comeuppance.” 

“But…”

“Please, John,” Sherlock cut him short. “Normally I don’t let your blather about girlfriends annoy me, but right now I’m busy. Chances are my network doesn’t find Van Scheveningen, hence we’re preparing plan B. Pass me my phone.”

Resigned, John cast a glance around the room. Sherlock’s jacket was hanging over the back of his chair. Insinuating his hand none too gently between Sherlock’s posterior and that of the chair, John retrieved the requested item.

“Here.”

“Hmm, yes.” Sherlock held out his left hand while flipping through a plastic booklet filled with photographs of shoe sole prints with his right.

“You’re looking for the owner of a black-haired bull terrier who wears a particular brand of shoes,” John stated.

“Excellent deduction,” praised Sherlock. 

“All right. But how…” Apparently some higher force had decreed Dr John Watson, RAMC, was to be denied the right to finish his sentences today. Sherlock’s phone started ringing loudly and insistently. His eyes lit up when he read the number.

“Billy?” he breathed into the mobile, gesturing for John to come closer. “What? Where? – Oh! Excellent! – No, bring him here. Find yourselves a cab. – I’ll see what I can do.” 

A grin as wide as that of the Cheshire cat stretched Sherlock’s lips when he ended the call. “Billy’s found him,” he said, jumping up from his chair and rubbing his hands. “Best start making the man a pot of coffee, John. Three times as strong as usual. And do we have anything in, sandwiches or biscuits, or something like that?”

Flummoxed by his friend’s surprising grasp of the demands of hospitality, John turned towards the coffeemaker. “We have bread, cheese, eggs, bacon, tomatoes. You unpacked the shopping.”

“I packed it all in the fridge.” Sherlock was pacing the living room, slaloming towards the window every two seconds to lift the curtain and throw a gander at the road, which was still being pounded by the unrelenting rain. “I didn’t check what it was.”

“Oh, great,” groaned John, pulling open the door of the fridge. Sure enough, the interior was a jumble of haphazardly stashed produce. “Tomatoes shouldn’t be kept in the fridge, Sherlock. They lose all their taste. And the tea… Jesus, how did you survive until we met?”

“Beans in tomato sauce are both nourishing and filling and they don’t need to be heated once you’re used to eating them cold,” Sherlock responded. “Ah, there he is.” He threw himself out of the room and down the stairs. 

John made use of his absence to quickly rearrange the contents of the fridge and the kitchen cupboards. The smell of the coffee was so strong he felt like he was being knocked over every time he reached for the cupboard beneath the coffeemaker. No way was he going to drink that stuff. He flicked on the kettle for himself instead.

Downstairs he could hear Sherlock’s excited rumble interspersed with a higher voice that spoke with a profound Cockney accent. After a few minutes the front door fell shut again and two pairs of feet ascended the stairs. Sherlock’s, quick and agile and taking the stairs two at a time, and a slower, wearier step.

“The living room is through that door. I’ll have John fetch you some towels,” Sherlock was saying. “John!” 

Obediently, John slipped into the bathroom to grab a couple of towels from the top of the stack he’d deposited there the day before after his return from the laundrette. In the living room he nearly let the towels drop at the sight of the giant standing in the centre of the room. Never mind the man was thoroughly wet and shivering all over, looking as pathetically helpless as a half-drowned puppy; the fact that his height almost dwarfed Sherlock in comparison turned him into an imposing figure. If Sherlock looked small next to this colossal figure, how about John? They must think he was a midget.

“Here,” John said, and _damn_ , he almost felt like he had to reach up to hand the man a towel. “For your hair. The bathroom is over there. Better shuck your clothes or you’ll end up with a nasty cold. You’ll find one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns dangling from the hook on the door. It should fit, more or less.” 

Without answering, the man accepted the towel. Slowly and meticulously, he began to scrub at his longish, blond hair, his elbows dangerously close to the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced in the direction of the hallway before suddenly taking off for the bathroom.

“Well?” John said.

“We’ll wait.” Sherlock was strangely calm, re-engaging himself in a scrutiny of the shoe print photos, comparing them to the pictures of the stairs at Moore House on his phone.

Three minutes later a much drier Van Scheveningen emerged from the bathroom. Alas, he also looked slightly ridiculous with his arms and legs protruding for a considerable distance from beneath the sleeves and the hem of the tartan-patterned dressing robe. From his hands hung his wet clothes and the towels. John relieved him of the burden and arranged the clothes over some chairs in front of the fire to dry, adding some extra coals to hasten the process.

“Who are you and why was I brought here?” Van Scheveningen asked.John had a hard time understanding what he was going on about for Van Scheveningen’s accent was every bit as dreadful as that employed by various actors depicting Germans in various sitcoms set during WW II. “Those men that bundled me into that cab told me Sherlock knew what he was doing and I had to trust you. They knew my name though I had never seen them in my life.”

“Sit down and let John give you a coffee,” Sherlock responded. Their guest’s staggering stature didn’t affect him in the slightest. Probably because the difference in height between him and Van Scheveningen was less than that between John and the man. “You must have had a bit of a shock, encountering a murder scene less than three hours after arriving in London.”

“How…,” began Van Scheveningen. To hear the man say the word which John put at the beginning of so many of the sentences he directed at Sherlock made John decide he’d avoid the expression like the plague in the future.

“Your name was jotted down in Hollingberry’s agenda,” explained Sherlock. “That’s why the Met are looking for you right now. Their prime witness, Miss Whitbourne, saw you coming out of Hollingberry’s flat with blood dripping from your hands, so you must be the murderer. You’re not, obviously, but they’re all idiots at the Yard. Not any different from what you’re used to on your side of the Channel, I suppose. You’re cleverer than they are, getting rid of your passport straightaway, but you should have thrown it into a bin, rather than the gutter.”

With a neat little bow he handed the dripping document to Van Scheveningen, who accepted the item with his mouth wide open. It wasn’t a very attractive sight. John vowed he’d definitely make an effort to gape less around Sherlock, in addition to the avoidance of a certain question word.

“How do you drink your coffee?” he asked.

“Black, no sugar,” their guest answered with his eyes locked on Sherlock. The consulting detective installed himself in his chair, exuding the smug satisfaction of a cat that had just wiped out a family of mice with ruthless efficiency.

“Sit down,” Sherlock repeated, gesturing at the chair he had positioned facing the mantelpiece, between his own chair and John’s. “Tell me what the man who killed Hollingberry looked like. Quick and to the point. I’ll hand you the first details: he was wearing black suede gloves, had a black American pit bull with him and a pair of _Adidas Ciero Mid Street_ trainers on his feet, size nine, or forty-three that would be in the Netherlands, I think.”

“Here’s your coffee.” John pushed the mug into their guest’s trembling hands. The man’s mouth was still open, he noticed. “Just don’t pay too much attention to him, he’s always like that. Basically, he wants to help you and there’s no better man in London to do so. Would you like a sandwich? Or would you prefer something hot? My last girlfriend always said my scrambled eggs were worth a detour.”

“For God’s sake, John. Nobody is interested in what you and your girlfriends get up to,” burst out Sherlock. “Even Mycroft…”

“Speaking of whom,” John jumped on the name in order to change the subject. “Shouldn’t you call him to tell him you’ve found Mr Van Scheveningen?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Sherlock.

“Who’s Mycroft?” Van Scheveningen asked, swivelling his gaze between the two of them as if he were a spectator at a tennis match.

“No one,” Sherlock said quickly.

“Really?” For once John felt he was the master of the situation and – thoroughly enjoying the feeling – went for squeezing the last drop of satisfaction out of the experience. “Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother," he continued, ignoring Sherlock’s scowl. “The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet according to some. He’s also the British government, the British Secret Service, and he branches out to the CIA on a freelance basis. He spends his free time abducting people and posing as a criminal mastermind. Oh yes, every Friday at three he indulges in a spot of tea with our Queen.”

“In short, you’ve already had a fright, so it would be inhuman to introduce you to him right now,” Sherlock took over. 

“I don’t follow you at all.” Carefully, Van Scheveningen took a sip of his coffee. The next instant his face scrunched up in disgust. “Oh, God.” He almost spat out the liquid. “Oh, shit. What is this? Damn. Sorry. This is terrible. Look, I’m sorry but you English drink your coffee so horribly weak.”

“What?” John asked in disbelief. “I used four times the quantity I normally use.”

“Yes, the English don’t understand a thing about coffee…”

“Could we end this conversation and get back to the matter in hand?” Sherlock butted in, the tone of his voice dangerously close to a massive tantrum. “You’re suspected of a murder, Geert. It’s in _your_ interest we find the real culprit, preferably before Mycroft, or – heaven forbid – Lestrade, come barging into the flat. Now, description, pronto.”

“I… I…,” Van Scheveningen began, his voice suddenly awkward and small, as if he were a little boy who had lost his mother in the playground. “I had just arrived and dropped off my luggage at the hotel and had a quick wash. I wanted to look my best, for this was Professor Hollingberry who had contacted me. The man is… was a genius, you know. I’m not a chemist myself, but I’m aware of his work, of course. I work at Utrecht University, we study cloud patterns and…”

“You’ve come to the right country then,” John said, angling his head towards the window, where the rain was still draining from the sky like water falling through a sieve.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock overrode him. “We’re aware what Hollingberry was working on and I get why he would be interested in your work but that’s beside the point. You arrived at Moore House and then what happened?”

“I rang the bell but nobody answered. That struck me as odd. Luckily… or perhaps… oh damn… luckily, I… someone came out the door just then so I caught the door and went inside. It was easy enough to find the floor where Professor Hollingberry lived and as the lift doors were open I just walked in and wentt up to the first floor. Thank you.”

The last was directed at John, who offered him a plate of sandwiches and eased the cup of coffee out of his hands. Sherlock looked decidedly annoyed by the interruption. 

After taking a huge bite of his sandwich and swallowing, Van Scheveningen went on, “Coming out of the lift I saw the door to one of the flats was standing open. I heard a thud and then a man came through the door. He was walking quickly with this… this forced quality, like he was forcing himself to act normally. At his side he had this nasty dog, one of those fighter breeds. I always wonder why anyone would want to own a dog like that. I mean, I like dogs, my wife and I… at home, that is… oh God, Anna… and Rakker…” Distraught, their guest let his plate slip from his fingers. John was able to catch it just in time.

“What did the man look like?” Sherlock pressed. His voice was saturated with the wholly inappropriate excitement he couldn’t help radiating while on the chase. 

Handing the plate to Van Scheveningen again, John indicated with his eyes it would be best if he continued with his story.

“The man,” Van Scheveningen repeated in a dazed tone. “He looked just like you and me, I suppose. Not like a criminal or anything. Well, except for his dog, I mean.”

“Forget about the dog.” It was obvious Sherlock was despairing his prime witness would be able to provide them with any useful information. “The man, Geert.”

“He was… shortish, yes, like you.” Van Scheveningen flicked his gaze to John. “No, he was shorter, about one sixty-five, I think, that’s five foot five, isn’t it? Yes, definitely shorter than Mr Watson here. Ordinary clothes, jeans, a dark-brown leather jacket and a white t-shirt, with a round neck, I believe, yes, round it was. I remember the gloves struck me as out of the ordinary, I mean, it’s quite warm…”

“Did you get a good look at his face?”

“Yes… yes. We nearly bumped into each other and he stared up at me and I remember his gaze, very intent and… frightening really… That’s when I began to be afraid. His eyes were brown, like chocolate, but cold and they stared out of this very white face… how would you say, yes… pasty-like. Yes, pasty, for he had these deep pits all over his cheeks, acne scars I guess. His hair was very thick and black, blacker than yours, and his lips were very red. I remember wondering whether he was wearing lipstick, except… well, he struck me as a very aggressive type. Like so many short men are, somehow compensating for what they lack in height.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed. During Van Scheveningen’s exposé he had been doodling in his Moleskine notebook. “Nose, chin, length of neck?” he enquired.

“His nose was prominent, almost like a beak. I, his chin?” Van Scheveningen tugged at his own. “He didn’t have one, or at least it appeared that way with that enormous nose. And his ears stood out, really wide.” He fell silent and his face assumed a thoughtful expression. “On the whole I think he was remarkably ugly,” he concluded. “Except I didn’t really notice because of that fierce look on his face, Christ.” As if to soothe himself Van Scheveningen took another bite of his sandwich.

“So, did he look like this?” Lifting himself out of his chair Sherlock held out his notebook for Van Scheveningen’s inspection. 

“Yes,” the man gasped. “Yes, like that, exactly.”

“Not a very pretty sight. Thank you, Geert, you’ve been extremely helpful. Most people have far worse retentive memories.” While addressing his guest Sherlock took a picture of the drawing with his phone, after which he began to text furiously.

“In my line of work we have to…” Van Scheveningen began to explain.

“Thank you for that information but John and I couldn’t care less,” Sherlock informed him. “I’m endeavouring to formulate a text that’s concise and yet contains the torrent of details you’ve just unloaded, so you might want to shut up now.”

“Oh.” Dumbstruck, Van Scheveningen stared at Sherlock for a while, swivelling his gaze to John when Sherlock kept to his self-imposed task without paying him the slightest bit of attention.

Feeling sorry for the man, John cleared his throat. “As you can’t stand the coffee, how about some tea?” he suggested, indicating Van Scheveningen should follow him into the kitchen.

“Look, it’s nothing personal. He’s always like that, to everyone,” John clarified Sherlock’s behaviour, once he’d pulled the sliding doors shut behind them. “He’s a complete git ninety percent of the time. But he’s bloody brilliant about ninety-eight percent of the time and he’ll have your name cleared and you reunited with your wife and your dog in no time. That’s why you should forgive him.”

“Oh, well.” Pulling out a chair, Van Scheveningen sat down at the table. Maybe the height difference was upsetting for him as well. “I can’t say I mind, really, for we all act like that in Holland. It’s just, you English are all so polite all the time, so one doesn’t expect it.” The next instant he hiccupped, a strange sound that arose deep from his throat. “But then, one doesn’t expect to find the man you’ve got an appointment with has just been murdered. He… all the blood… Oh God, I was so afraid for then I realised… I was certain the man would be waiting for me outside… or the police and of course they’d assume… because I touched Professor Hollingberry, but there was nothing I could do for him. And oh… all the blood...”

Freed from Sherlock’s stern gaze and accompanying brutal interrogation technique, Van Scheveningen gave in to the emotions that must have been whirling inside him, never mind he’d just revealed putting up with extremely rude people all the time appeared to be the norm in Holland.

“There, there,” John murmured, patting the man on the shoulder. “There, there.” Emitting more – hopefully comforting – noises he kept rubbing the silk of Sherlock’s dressing gown. After a while the sobs began to subside. 

“I’m sorry,” Van Scheveningen whispered, casting a searching gaze around the kitchen. Catching the hint, John tore a Kleenex from the box on the worktop.

“Here.”

“Thank you. Sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, you’ve had a nasty shock.” In despair John racked his mind for some consoling words that weren’t abominably trivial and useless. In the end the best he could find was, “I can imagine you’d want to talk to your wife. But I think you’ll have to wait until Sherlock has safely delivered the murderer into Mycroft’s hands.”

“Will he be able to do that?”

“Well, he found you in less than two hours, didn’t he?”

Still dabbing at his eyes, Van Scheveningen nodded.

The sliding doors were pushed open. “You could make me some tea as well while you’re at it,” Sherlock complained.

“Of course.” John dumped a teabag into a mug and pushed it in Sherlock’s direction. “What do we do now?”

“Wait for a text from Billy.” After reaching into the scalding hot tea with his fingers and depositing the bag on the kitchen work top Sherlock trotted back to the living room and sat down at the desk, pulling his laptop towards him.

“And in the meantime?” John enquired, pointedly.

“ _I’m_ going to start on my thesis on frogs poisons,” Sherlock said, peering intently at the screen while his fingers flew over the keyboard. “I don’t know about you. What do you normally do when you’re not working or out chasing three minutes of libido gratification?”

Balling his fists, John shot his flatmate a murderous glance but of course the bloody berk didn’t even notice. Or gave a very good impression of not doing so. John could feel Van Scheveningen towering over him behind his back. 

“Ah, look.” To John’s relief the man appeared to have a got a grip on himself again. “Perhaps you have a book, or a magazine? I really don’t want to impose on you or anything.”

“You’re not,” John assured him quickly. “I’m afraid all I’ve got is spy novels. Unless you’d be interested in medical journals, or the latest _Guns & Ammo_. We also have _Blackstone’s Statues on Criminal Law_ , can’t say I’ve read that myself but according to Sherlock it’s fascinating reading material.”

“Err, no. A spy novel is fine. I’m a bit of a Bond fan.”

“Really?” John asked, warming considerably towards their guest. “Who’s the best Bond then, in your opinion?”

“Oh, Timothy Dalton, definitely. Though that new…”

With a dramatic sigh and an even more histrionic eyeroll, Sherlock slammed his laptop shut and flounced out of the living room in the direction of his bedroom.

“Just ignore him,” John soothed Van Scheveningen. “My Bond novels are over there, next to my chair.”

Five minutes later they were both arranged comfortably enough with a cuppa and a book, John having gone upstairs to retrieve his novel. Van Scheveningen had managed to fold his legs in the space between the sofa and the coffee table. About half an hour passed in blessed silence, which was only broken by the crackling of the fire in the hearth or a page being turned. 

While reading John sat quietly marvelling at the trust Van Scheveningen showed with regard to Sherlock and his methods. Perhaps he was overwhelmed by the fact that his attempt to make himself invisible had proved so futile. By now John had become more or less immune to the wonders Sherlock could work. Still, he wasn’t hardened enough yet not to appreciate that what Sherlock did must appear to be miraculous to an outsider. Less than an hour ago Van Scheveningen had been huddled outside in the ceaseless rain, desperate and convinced he would be charged with murder. Now he sat ensconced in their flat, dry and sipping from his mug of comforting tea, having been assured the real murderer would be caught in no time. What an endlessly accepting and adaptive instrument the human mind proved to be once more.

John’s musings were disturbed by the loud bang of Sherlock’s bedroom door.

“We’ve got him!” Sherlock almost tripped over his toes in excited jubilation. “Come on, John, hurry. Best bring your gun as well.”

“It’s upstairs.” John jumped out of his chair and ran to the door. Sherlock was already arranging his scarf around his neck. Van Scheveningen sat petrified in open-mouthed stupor.

“Shouldn’t you text Greg?” John shouted down at Sherlock, while rifling through his sock-drawer.

“We’re chasing a murderer. There’s no time to wait for the police,” Sherlock shouted back. “You stay put, Geert,” John heard him instructing Van Scheveningen next. “If an incredibly annoying, fat windbag armed with an umbrella happens to drop by, just tell him to sod off.” 

“Sherlock’s brother,” John elucidated to their guest, whose face was wearing its semi-permanent look of befuddlement again. “Don’t worry. We’ll ask Mrs Hudson not to let anyone in. You’ll be right as rain.”

Downstairs Sherlock was already ordering Mrs Hudson to bar all visitors from gaining access to the flat, regardless of the arguments they might put forth.

“Oh, the poor man,” Mrs Hudson commiserated, immediately empathising with the hounded and the oppressed, as was her wont. “But don’t you want me to go up and look after him? Tell me you gave him a cuppa, at least?”

“John’s been taking care of him,” Sherlock assured her. “He gave him enough sandwiches to feed half of the population of St Bart’s for a week.”

“Nonsense.” John had ended up besides Sherlock, his gun safely stashed in the inside pocket of his black coat. “Do look after him by all means, Mrs Hudson. He can do with the sympathy.”

“Stop dawdling, John,” Sherlock urged; his hand already on the door latch. “The game is on. Quickly, before our murderer makes his escape.”

***

Three quarters of an hour later they were both crouched in the mud behind a bulging skip in one of Barking’s sleazier alleys. The rain continued to beat down upon them in billowing sheets, driven into the narrow backstreet by gusts of wind that had taken the fast lane straight from the North Pole. The end of May and here they were shivering in a never-ending deluge.

“What’s he doing?” Sherlock muttered. The fact that they were both being soaked to the skin didn’t appear to affect him at all. Perhaps his coat was lined with Gore-Tex? Still, his scarf already bore a closer resemblance to a drowned cat slung around his neck than a clothing accessory. 

“Ah, he’s packing.” Sherlock’s eyes were lit with excitement as he gazed up at the window where their criminal – easily recognisable after Van Scheveningen’s description – was hurrying to and fro, his figure outlined starkly in the light that blazed down from a ceiling lamp. “He’s going to run. He’s going to live the high life on the Continent, until he reads in the papers that Van Scheveningen is safely stowed behind bars. Of course. The appearance of that unlucky sod must have seemed a sign from heaven to him. No wonder he decided not to kill him. Why shoot the man who’s going to serve your time as Her Majesty’s guest? Neat.”

“I still think we should call Greg,” John said, sneezing.

“Quiet, for Christ’s sake,” Sherlock whispered. “He’s coming down.”

“He can’t hear us. He’s inside,” John remonstrated. _…and dry_ , he added in his mind.

True to Sherlock’s words the hit man had indeed left the room. John had just managed to free his gun from the waterlogged folds of his coat when the front door opened to reveal the murderer and his dog. It was a fearsome animal, saliva dripping from its jaws in thick threads. From the safety of the door they stood surveying the lane together. A growl rose from deep in the dog’s throat. Involuntarily, John flinched at the sheer menace the sound purveyed.

“Come on,” the man snarled at his pet, tugging at its leash. The beast yelped and fell into a trot at its owner’s side.

“They’re coming this way,” John said in an undertone. “Bloody hell.”

The pair drew to a halt in front of the skip, where the dog whined and snuffled the air loudly.

“Sit!” The dog yapped in protest. “Sit, ye fuckin’ twat!” the man yelled. 

At his side John could feel Sherlock stiffen in disgust. The next second the loud crack of a shot echoed from the side of the skip and the walls of the houses lining the alley, followed by a thud as the beast’s corpse landed on top of the bags of waste.

“Jesus,” John breathed, his ears ringing from the noise. “Sherlock,” he hissed as he felt his friend shift beside him. “No, don’t…”

Paying John no heed Sherlock had sprung to his feet and was now racing after their suspect, who had pivoted on his heel after doing away with his pet and was making for his front door. Tackling the criminal on the threshold, Sherlock slammed the man against the floor of his own hallway. For a moment they both lay quiet – stunned from the impact, no doubt – then their bodies erupted into a grunting heap of writhing limbs. Belying his short and wiry stature, Hollingberry’s murderer appeared to be quite strong and soon he was waving his gun dangerously close to Sherlock’s head, his other hand pulling the consulting detective’s scarf tight around the throat.

“John,” Sherlock gasped. John’s immediate reaction when Sherlock launched himself had been to run after him, and he was now standing over them, aiming the butt of his gun for the right angle to knock out their suspect. The man’s head reared up when Sherlock managed to knee him in the gut and John struck. Blood bloomed on the man’s temple as his head fell sideways. A sudden silence descended over the scene, shredded solely by the heaves of wheezing breath Sherlock was pulling into his lungs.

“Sherlock, are you all right?” John urged, bending down to aid his friend in lifting himself from the floor.

“Yes, fine… fine…” Sherlock huffed, straightening his scarf and disguising an obvious spell of dizziness by swatting at the knees of his trousers. “That was… good thinking, John.”

“Better than yours, genius. Can we call Greg now that you’ve had your fun?”

“No,” Sherlock decreed. He coughed, beating a little on his chest to clear his throat. “Close the door, John, before we draw any unwanted attention to ourselves.” After John had pushed the door shut, he said, “We’ll call Mycroft. After all, this is about more than just Hollingberry’s murder. While we’re waiting for Mycroft’s minions to come and collect him we might as well find out his name.”

“I didn’t hit him too hard,” John said. “He should regain consciousness any minute now.”

“Let’s carry him into the living room. I want to have a look around before the house is invaded by Mycroft’s lackeys.”

Between the two of them they managed to carry the limp figure into a room that opened on the right, where they dropped him on a black sofa. The new _Adidas_ trainers on the man’s feet stood out against the scuffed leather covering the sofa cushions. The rest of the furniture consisted of a dining table with two chairs and an enormous television. The walls and floorboards were bare. It was obvious their host’s taste tended heavily towards severe minimalism. 

“Here,” Sherlock said, retrieving a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and dropping them next to their prisoner on the sofa. “Best use these.”

“Where did you get those?”

“We saw Lestrade earlier today, didn’t we? I thought they might come in handy. Be grateful one of us plans ahead.”

“I doubt Greg sees it that way.”

“I can’t help it he’s an idiot,” was Sherlock’s reply. His voice, John was relieved to hear, had resumed its normal quality. He whisked out his phone and hit a button, barking into it almost straightaway. “We’ve got Hollingberry’s murderer. I suppose you want to collect him.” He gave the address and ended the call.

“They’ll be here in less than a quarter of an hour,” he announced. 

A groan rose from the sofa, where John had just finished cuffing their captive. 

“What’s your name?” Sherlock asked.

From his prone position the man stared up at Sherlock, hatred blazing in his eyes. “What’s it to you?” he spat.

“Nothing,” conceded Sherlock. “You’re not important anyway.” Lifting the tails of his coat, he seated himself at the table and drew the laptop that was sitting on it towards him. 

“I guess you’re not going to give me the password to your computer either,” he said.

“ ‘Course not, ye fuckin’ twat, what de ye take me fo’?”

“Someone with a remarkably limited vocabulary of insults,” answered Sherlock. “Oh, and with an equally narrow imagination with regard to thinking up computer passwords.” His fingers were flying over the keyboard and three seconds later the laptop sprang to life. “There,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Now let’s have a look at your dirty little secrets, Mr Harris. Not very rousing, probably, though John might be interested in the porn pages you visit, in case he’s missed something during his late night browsing sessions. Bananas and eggplants… really? No, that’s too weird for John’s preferences.”

“Would you stop discussing my porn viewing habits with total strangers?” John broke in, highly annoyed.

“Okay, if you insist,” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder, his fingers rattling away at fifty miles an hour. “Aha,” he keened, sudden excitement radiating from him in huge, billowing waves. “What have we got here? That’s some fascinating correspondence… Oh, dear God in heaven, what a bunch of bloody amateurs… And these are the kind of people Mycroft elects to hobnob with on a daily basis. Small wonder he starts stuffing himself in despair at every opportunity…”

The loud ring of the doorbell interrupted his harangue against stupidity in the higher strata of the business and political world. 

“That’s Mycroft, John,” Sherlock directed, remaining firmly seated at the table.

Mentally preparing for a third confrontation with Mycroft in less than twenty-four hours, John was pleasantly surprised to detect the lovely form of ‘Anthea’ waiting in front of the door instead.

“Hello,” he said. ‘Anthea’ briefly flicked her gaze up from her Blackberry but immediately settled it back on the instrument again.

“Mr Holmes sent me to collect an individual who was arrested by his brother,” she said, her hands busy working the keys of her phone all the while. She stepped to the side to let two men in neat, black suits pass into the hallway, before following them, eyes riveted on the Blackberry, leaving it to John to shut the door behind them.

“It’s nice seeing you too,” he said to himself in an undertone.

‘Anthea’ stopped and twirled around. “Excuse me?” she said, still staring down at her phone.

“It’s nothing. Forget it, okay?” answered John, trying very hard not to let the offense he felt express itself in his tone of voice.

“Fine.” In the living room they found Mr Harris in the midst of a vociferous diatribe against the treatment meted out to him at the hands of one member of Mycroft’s personnel. The other man was bent over the computer, at a respectful distance from Sherlock, who sat lecturing him on his findings.

“Ye bastards,” their prisoner was yelling at the top of his voice at the man who had bundled him neatly beneath one arm. “Dirty pigs, I’ll sue ye fo’ this. I’m a citizen, ye hav no right to do this to me! I’ll write to the Queen he’self…”

“You do that,” ‘Anthea’ advised him. “I’ll make sure Mr Holmes discusses the topic with Her Majesty Friday next.” While she spoke her fingers kept working the buttons of her mobile. “Perhaps you could gag him?” she suggested. “My mother and sister are addicted to _Eastenders_ , so these Cockney accents tend to get on my nerves.”

“Certainly, miss,” the man holding Mr Harris replied politely. He felt in his jacket pocket with his other hand and retrieved a snowy white handkerchief. Deftly, he whisked it around Harris’ head and knotted it at the back. A dignified silence settled over the room. 

“… and here’s the gun,” Sherlock could be heard telling the agent standing next to him. “The Met will want that, once you hand him over to them.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes. Do you also happen to have the cuff keys?”

“Oh no!” Sherlock clapped his hands in front of his face, his mouth falling open in dismay. “I must have lost those during the scuffle. Apologies.”

Mycroft’s man fixed Sherlock with his stare for several seconds but Sherlock kept staring back at him, his eyes wide in candid innocence. In the end the man gave up. “Thank you, Mr Holmes,” he said, closing the laptop and tucking it under his arm. “It was a pleasure working with you.”

“I can’t say the feeling is mutual,” quipped Sherlock, levering himself up from his chair. “Are we done here?” he addressed ‘Anthea’. “If Mycroft can’t even be bothered to come and collect his prize himself, I don’t see why John and I should have to remain here. Our present surroundings aren’t very inspiring, I must say.”

“Aren’t they?” enquired ‘Anthea’. “The local authorities are continuously endeavouring to improve the welfare and the living conditions of the local populace.”

“They’re obviously not succeeding,” Sherlock commented. “Come on, John.” He swept out of the room without another glance for either ‘Anthea’, Mycroft’s security detail or the criminal he had handed them. Outside, Sherlock flung the keys of the handcuffs into the skip and flipped up his collar against the perennial rain that was still falling out of the darkened sky.

“Small chance of us finding a cab here,” John could hear him mutter. “We’d best start heading west, what do you reckon?”

***

Luckily, they managed to flag down a cab twenty minutes after they’d started walking along one of Barking’s main arteries. Nevertheless, they were both shivering with cold by the time the taxi drew to a halt in front of 221 Baker Street. Warm light flooded from the windows above Speedy’s awning. While Sherlock paid, John opened the front door. He felt bone-tired all of a sudden. Checking his watch he discovered it was already past ten. So much for enjoying a leisurely day off from the clinic. Right now all John wanted to do was head straight for Bedford. His alarm would start ringing at the ungodly hour of six tomorrow morning.

On the landing they were greeted by the sound of Mrs Hudson in full mothering mode. 

“Of course you can have another helping,” she was saying. “It’s been a long time since I saw someone tuck into his dinner with such enthusiasm. My husband had a hearty appetite – until he ended up on Death Row, that is – but Sherlock eats less than a mouse and John tries, but of course he has but a small body to feed…”

Small body or not, the talk of food reminded John it had been several hours since he’d last eaten. He entered the flat, Sherlock following closely on his heels. 

Knees reaching almost up to his chest, Geert van Scheveningen sat doubled over in Sherlock’s chair, shovelling great forkfuls of a plate loaded with Mrs Hudson’s steak and kidney pie and oven-roasted carrots into his mouth and humming approvingly. Their landlady was concerning herself with their other visitor, who had planted his behind in John’s chair and twitched his nose in appreciation of the mouth-watering smell of the food that was just being handed to him.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock barked at the minor government official. “Mrs Hudson, I told you…” He turned towards his landlady beseechingly.

“Oh, hush, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson waved him off. “Mycroft is family. Of course I let him in.”

“That smells wonderful, Mrs H,” John tried to change the subject, his stomach rumbling its support of his statement. 

“Thank you, John,” she said, beaming at him. “I was just telling Mycroft here how well you like your food. Oh…” Her face fell. “Oh, dear.”

John sighed. “I know, you just gave Mycroft the last plate,” he said. “Never mind, Mrs Hudson. We’ll order takeaway. You’re eating, I guess?” The last was directed at Sherlock, who still stood glowering at his brother. 

“Yes,” Sherlock growled dismissively. “I don’t care what you order as long as it’s Chinese.”

Meanwhile Van Scheveningen was unfolding himself from Sherlock’s chair, plate balanced awkwardly in one hand.

“My apologies for taking your chair, Sherlock. I assumed…”

“Never mind about that,” Sherlock dismissed his visitor’s apologies. He angled his head meaningfully in Mycroft’s direction. “Please confirm you haven’t been talking to him?” 

“I… what?” Van Scheveningen answered, the creases in his forehead knitted in confusion. “Of course I have been talking to Mr Holmes. I can’t see why you didn’t want me to meet him. He’s made me an offer I can’t refuse.”

From behind the safety of Wah Nam’s takeaway menu, John snorted. Naturally, the irony of the expression was lost on Sherlock, who merely raised an enquiring eyebrow at John’s display of merriment. Perhaps – in spite of the earlier James Bond and Amy Whitehouse fiascos – John should organise a _Godfather_ evening one of these days. 

“Your kindness in accepting the post gratifies me in the extreme, Mr Van Scheveningen.” Mycroft was all smug self-satisfaction. “Though I assure you I would never have lowered myself to having a decapitated horse's head placed between your sheets. We’re a civilised nation, on this small isle of ours.”

“Oh.” Van Scheveningen laughed. “Oh, I see. Mario Puzo. Good heavens, Mr Holmes. I would never think of comparing you to the Mafia, not after what you’ve told me.”

The thunderous slam of Sherlock’s bedroom door expressed his views on Mycroft’s occupation and his recruiting methods loud and clear.

The man himself threw a wry eye after his brother and dispensed with his emptied plate into Mrs Hudson’s waiting hands before pulling forth his phone from his waistcoat pocket.

“You can bring the car around,” he said into it and disconnected the call. “I suppose you’ll want to call it a day, Mr Van Scheveningen. Let me escort you to your hotel. We can handle the details of your position tomorrow, and introduce you to the rest of the British team as well.”

After collecting his umbrella and pressing a kiss on Mrs Hudson’s hand to thank her for her hospitality, Mycroft turned towards John. “Good night, John,” he declared. “And good luck with your ventures in broadening Sherlock’s knowledge of popular culture.”

He smiled and swept out of the room. Though Mycroft would never be able to imbue his departures with the sheer amount of drama Sherlock managed to convey, John couldn’t but silently applaud the elder Holmes brother for giving it the best he had. He was still staring after Mycroft when his hand was suddenly grabbed.

“Thank you, John.” Van Scheveningen had stooped low to grasp John’s hand and was now straightening up again. “And please be so kind as to thank Sherlock on my behalf as well. For clearing my name… and for introducing me to his brother. I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am about his job offer. Well, in fact, I’m not allowed to tell you anything…” he broke off, uncertainly.

“It’s fine,” John soothed him. “It was me who explained Mycroft is essentially the British government, remember?”

“Yes, all right. Well, good luck, John, and I hope Sherlock isn’t too angry. I confess I can see he’s very handsome, even though I’m not inclined…”

“Look, Mycroft’s waiting for you,” John said, letting go of Van Scheveningen’s hand abruptly. 

“Yes… well. Goodbye.”

“I’ll be off too, John dear,” Mrs Hudson added and bustled down the stairs together with Van Scheveningen.

With a weary sigh John dropped into his chair. The seat was still infused with the warmth of the British government’s backside but John decided he was too bushed to concern himself with such minor inconveniences. He dialled Wah Nam and placed his order. They promised to have it delivered in twenty minutes.

Behind him he could hear the sound of Sherlock’s bedroom door being pulled open.

“Are they gone?”

“Yes, you can come out now,” John answered.

“Remind me to eliminate Mycroft straightaway the next time we meet.” Sherlock had made use of his escape to shuck his jacket and don his blue dressing gown. He bent and prodded the coals, which began to glow with more enthusiasm. After John had toed off his shoes he began to feel decidedly better.

“Do you mind if I play the violin for a while?” Sherlock asked.

“Not at all, I’d like that, actually.”

“Good.” Sherlock lifted the violin and the bow out of the case and positioned himself in front of the window, gazing out at the muted glow of the street lamps, dispelling the darkness of the night.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s stopped raining.”


End file.
